


Twister Tournament

by ssclassof56



Series: Agent Pemberley [11]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Napoleon plans some entertainment for the annual Christmas party, and Illya finds himself an unwilling participant.





	1. Reindeer Games

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal for the Section7MFU Christmas Gossip Challenge 2015.

“What is that?” Illya asked, gesturing to the box Napoleon set on his desk.

“It’s a game for the Christmas party.” Napoleon turned the box to give Illya a better view.

“Twister,” Illya read. “’The game that ties you up in knots.’”

"It’s new. The game board is a mat on the floor, and the players are the pieces.”

“Like human chess.”

“Ahhh, not exactly.” Napoleon opened the box and held up the spinner. “This decides where each player places a hand or foot on the mat. Then everyone gets tangled in a knot. See?”

“I see. Sounds very dignified.”

Napoleon restored the spinner and closed the lid. “The perennial Christmas party trade-off: the more dignity one is willing to set aside, the more enjoyment one will experience.”

“And does one presume others are willing to make this trade-off?”

“One does.” Napoleon pulled a list from the inner pocket of his jacket. “I've been lining up teams for a tournament.”

“Co-ed?” Illya asked, rolling his eyes.

“Of course. I've got seven teams so far, including Wanda and myself. April just sent Mark out to get a set so they can start practicing.” Napoleon took a pen from the desk. “I'm putting you down for team number eight.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

Napoleon looked crestfallen. “Where's your Christmas spirit?”

“Not in that box.”

“There must be some pretty thing around here you'd like to get tied up in knots with?”

"With whom I'd like to get tied in knots,” Illya corrected.

"Precisely. I've marked you down, but I've left the partner blank for now.”

“Napoleon, it will be a cold day in Hell before I play in this tournament.”

“That sounds like insubordination,” Napoleon said, then pointed the pen at himself. “Two years seniority, remember.”

“That has no bearing on this situation.”

“Hmmm. We’ll see.” Napoleon grinned and tucked the box under his arm. As he left the office, he called over his shoulder, “I'd start limbering up, if I were you.”


	2. More Reindeer Games

Illya joined Faustina in the elevator and fumed silently.

“Welcome back, Faustina. Thank you, Illya. How was Hong Kong? The Chinese turned the water off again. Sounds dreadful. At least THRUSH was just as uncomfortable as we were.”

Her imitation of him failed to elicit even the ghost of a smile. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Illya held out a folded sheet of paper and a tiny cone of red velvet and white fur.

Faustina recognized the miniature Santa hat of her own making. “Where's Moby?” she asked warily.

“A Christmas hostage,” Illya hissed.

“What?” Faustina snatched the paper from his hand and began to read. “Captain Ahab, Your lobster has generously volunteered to be a prize in the Twister Tournament. If you plan to win him back, I suggest you choose a partner or get knotted. Ishmael.” She looked up in surprise. “Napoleon?”

“Who else? I'd keelhaul him, only he’s made himself scarce.” They stepped from the elevator and headed down the corridor.

“Twister Tournament. So that's what he was going on about. As it was 3am Hong Kong time, the call ended rather abruptly.”

“With his being stuffed in drawer after getting a piece of your mind?”

She nodded. “In a few colorful Cantonese phrases I'd just acquired. So what brought about these Mafia tactics?”

“I declined to participate in his shenanigans.”

“Well, some are born to shenanigans, and some have shenanigans thrust upon them.” Her lips twitched.

“I fail to see what's so funny.”

They arrived at her office. Faustina tossed her hat and purse on the desk, then froze. “Where's Benjamin?”

A small elf hat of green velvet, complete with tiny bell, lay on the desk next to a folded paper. Illya picked it up. “It's a list of the teams, and there's a note at the bottom. ‘Tsk. Tsk. They don't allow that kind of language on the airwaves. Illya needs a partner. Benjamin will be watching the tournament and expects you to make a good showing.’” He raised his brows at her. “Still think it's funny?”

Faustina wasn't listening. She dialed the phone. “This is Pemberley. I want a tray of fruit and danish sent up, and fresh coffee on the hour. For lunch, two turkey sandwich platters. Thank you.”

She hung up the phone and began digging in the desk, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

“I wish you'd take this more seriously,” he complained.

“I take my holiday hijinks very seriously. That's why we're having a council of war.”

He watched her tape sheets of paper to the wall. “Are we going to sabotage the tournament?”

“No, we're going to win it.”

"And if I categorically refuse?”

“Then I'll win Moby, and we’ll need to discuss visitation rights.”

They locked gazes. Illya finally sighed. “I want it on record that I'm doing this under duress.”

“Let the record so reflect.” She wrote their names side by side on the central sheet, then tapped the marker to her lips. “As I see it, this isn't just a game of physical skill but of psychology. So the key to winning will be knowing our opponents and knowing ourselves.”

“Sun Tzu,” he said, appreciatively.

“We write down what we know and find out the rest. Likes, dislikes, fears, fetishes, allergies, anything we can use to our advantage.”

“’Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt,’” he quoted. “Finally my sort of shenanigans.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moby the Lobster first appeared in my story [Call Me Ishmael](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9428108)


	3. Shenanigans

Napoleon had been very pleased by how neatly he had roped Illya and Faustina into the Twister Tournament. Now he was having second thoughts.

Since she’d been transferred to New York, Faustina had repeatedly turned down his dinner invitations, claiming a strict policy of non-fraternization with other Section II agents.

It was galling to see how quickly that conviction had been abandoned since he'd teamed her with Illya. Not just abandoned, but rejected, renounced, and thoroughly repudiated.

On her return from Hong Kong, they had spent the day closeted in her office. Illya had been suspiciously casual when asked about it. Even worse, his mood was more cheerful than usual, and he’d begun smiling for no reason.

Yesterday Napoleon had found them on the conference room couch. He frowned at the memory. They were sitting at a respectable distance as he entered the room. Yet he was certain there’d been some hasty scrambling as the doors slid open and an air of suppressed excitement behind their nonchalant greetings. And Illya’s tie had been askew.

Today Illya had declined Napoleon’s lunch invitation, citing a previous commitment. It must have been a six course lunch, for his partner was very late in returning. When Napoleon had pointed out something red at the corner of his mouth, Illya claimed it was raspberry sauce. Napoleon recognized Tahitian Sunset, Faustina’s signature lip color, and refused to contemplate what his partner had really had for dessert.

Unable to resist any longer, Napoleon opened his communicator and called Illya.

"Not now," was his partner’s terse greeting.

“Illya, where are you?”

“At my apartment. What do you want?”

“I knocked a few minutes ago but got no answer.”

“I just got in. Is there an emergency?”

“No.” He heard laughter in the background. Feminine laughter. “Are you alone?”

“Of course. That’s the television.”

The sound that followed Illya's assertion was the pop of a champagne cork, or Napoleon would turn in his Special and ID. “And that?”

“A beer commercial.” Illya yawned extravagantly. “I’m turning in early. Tomorrow is the Christmas party, and I have a tournament to win.” Illya’s voice receded, as if he’d stepped away from his communicator. Or been drawn away.

“Ahhh, all right. Good night.”

As he spoke, Napoleon could hear Illya’s murmur, “Now where were we? Oh, yes, I was right about here…” followed by the squeal of his name in a familiar voice. A voice that by rights and tradition should have been squealing “Napoleon.”

“Hoist by my own petard,” Napoleon concluded sourly, wishing he'd never found the game Twister.

 

Back at headquarters, Illya closed his communicator. “That should give him something to lose sleep over.”

“I hope so. We want him so off balance, he's questioning his own name.” She finished adding a note to their wall diagram. “We’ve really got to sell this tomorrow. Are you sure you can stomach displaying that much public affection?”

“I'll manage to bear up under the strain,” he said dryly. “We’re going to cause a lot of talk.”

She shrugged. “What people actually remember the next day, we’ll attribute to an excess of holiday spirits and rum punch.”

“And if they attribute it to this?” he asked, indicating the gold band on his left hand.

“You know my thoughts on that. But you’re right, speculation will abound. So you make the call: off or on.”

Illya's ran his communicator down his nose as he thought. “I'll sleep on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One facet of the Office Gossip Challenge, which prompted this story, was speculation about Illya's ring.


	4. Twister Finals

"You seem anxious, Napoleon.” Wanda said.

He relaxed his furrowed brow. “Only anxious to be entangled with you again,” he said smoothly.

“Where are they? They've sure disappeared together an awful lot today. People are joking that we should check the Map Room closet.”

“Clandestine clinches are not exactly Illya’s style.”

“Neither are the looks he's been giving Faustina.” She shivered. “He looks at her like he could eat her up. Nancy said it’s like she's Red Riding Hood and he's the wolf.”

She continued, heedless of Napoleon's aggrieved expression. “And did you notice? They only danced with each other. Nancy said when they slow danced, his hand was venturing awfully low.”

“It was on her hip,” Napoleon grated, obviously wishing Nancy to Jericho.

Wanda looked unconvinced. “If you say so. That's where it's been most of the rest of the day.”

The final match of the Twister Tournament had drawn a crowd, forcing them to move it into the gymnasium. The prospect of Mr. Waverly walking in on the match and calling it off only added to the spectators' excitement. People scrambled to place last minute bets. Most of the money was riding on Illya’s team, who had been cutting through opponents like a hot knife through butter. Their performance that day, on and off the mat, was the hot topic of conversation.

Some of their opponents fell prey to sweet distraction. The women had only dreamed of being that close to Illya, their resulting agitation deemed an unfair disadvantage by several male teammates. They would be even less pleased to know that the girls felt that Illya had somehow tapped into their private fantasies. Cheryl had long thrilled to the idea of Illya nibbling her ear. And there he was on the Twister mat, his lips continually within inches of her ear, his warm breath sending chills down her spine. Who could keep their balance under such provocation? she declared, and the other vanquished ladies heartily agreed.

The men shared similar war stories of Faustina. If they were chest fanciers, Faustina's cleavage was never far away. If they were leg men, a long, smooth limb was usually within an inch of their noses. Blood red nails. Perfectly pedicured feet. A sultry phrase in an exotic language. Whatever their pleasure, they found it on the Twister mat, stealing their attention and upsetting their equilibrium.

Several resentments were harbored into the coming weeks over weaknesses exploited. Mandy, who hated spiders, couldn't persist in the face of the arachnid-like jewelry Faustina wore during their match. Two opponents succumbed to sneezing fits and looked in vain for a cat in the room. Mark, who hated the smell of garlic, swore Illya must have lunched on raw cloves.

Wanda bit her nail. “I'm nervous, Napoleon. They say it’s like they get in your head.”

“Nonsense. They're not mind readers.”

The crowd stirred and parted. Wanda let out a squeak of alarm.

Illya had discarded his suit for the white denim and fitted t-shirt he sometimes wore undercover. His feet were bare. Wanda’s breathing quickened audibly, and her hand fluttered up to smooth her hair. “Pool cleaner,” she whispered.

“How did you know that?”

“I know a girl in the Los Angeles office. That look made quite an impression on her.”

"And you too, apparently,” Napoleon grumbled.

Faustina had also changed clothes. She now wore a halter top and a pair of high-waisted shorts. As she turned around to face her teammate, Napoleon received the full effect of the essentially backless top and the shorts that hugged her rounded derrière.

“You see?” Wanda hissed. “His hand.”

Illya’s left hand, which had been resting on Faustina's shoulder, slid slowly down her bare back to rest at her hip. Very low on her hip.

“And he’s not wearing the ring? What do you think it means?”

“I think it means we need to focus on winning this game,” he said.

The teams approached the mat. Napoleon looked Illya up and down. “Something happen to your suit?”

“I spilled champagne punch on it.”

"And on your shoes?"

“Black doesn't go with these pants.”

“What about you?” he asked Faustina.

“I was hot,” she replied. Illya leaned in to whisper in her ear, and she laughed, swatting him playfully. He captured her hand and kissed it.

Wanda and Napoleon watched this display, one mesmerized, one disgusted.

“If you’re quite through,” Napoleon said, “we have a tournament to finish.”

Illya nodded. “By all means, let’s begin. I wouldn't want to delay your downfall longer than necessary.”

Kitt Kittridge, the acting referee, reviewed the rules, which were few, and the final match began. Wanda was the first to fall. The pool cleaner ensemble, the stuff of many late night conversations with Los Angeles and a few vivid dreams, was too much to handle in such close proximity. The game almost finished soon after when Napoleon suddenly yelped in pain. He floundered momentarily, but kept his balance.

“What is in that knot?” he asked, eyeing the bow that held Faustina's halter top closed at the back.

“Pins. Why were you touching it?”

Fallen opponents in the crowd recognized the guerrilla tactics they had faced earlier in the day. Some maneuvers were more effective than others. Close contact with Faustina’s anterior and posterior produced only looks of appreciation from Napoleon. He looked less appreciative of their other antics. The two always managed to be touching, limbs skimming provocatively across each other with each spin Kitt called.

Despite these efforts, Napoleon was a worthy opponent, and many minutes later, they were locked in a stalemate. Illya was crouched at one side of the mat, his chin resting in the hollow above Faustina's knee. Napoleon balanced face up on the other side of the mat, trapping Faustina between them. Though she was sustaining a very awkward pose with grace, the crowd predicted she would not last past another spin.

“Ready to give in?” Napoleon challenged her. “I could do this all day. Games are how I stay fit.”

Kitt flicked the spinner and called Napoleon’s next move. “Right foot green.” It was a minor shift of his leg, and Napoleon smiled in satisfaction.

Mark, still annoyed by the garlic ploy, called out to Napoleon. “It's in the bag, mate.”

“Don't worry, Faustina darling,” April countered, sticking with her sex despite their earlier defeat. “You can do this.”

“Thank you, April,” she replied, breathless from sustaining her pose. “Mark, as they say in Hong Hong—“ She pronounced a phrase that provoked snickers from members of Language Translation. Mark took it with his good-natured, elfin grin.

Illya’s spin came next. “Right hand yellow.” It could have been an easy move, but Illya chose to stretch toward the top of the mat, displaying the gymnastic skills that had served him well all day. He whispered in Faustina's ear, and she nodded.

“Left hand blue,” Kitt announced for Faustina. The crowd groaned. The closest blues were practically underneath Napoleon. Even if she could reach one, she'd be aiming blind.

Faustina tensed her muscles and drew breath. Napoleon watched her from the corner of his eye.

“Napoleon,” Illya called, “do you recall what I first said of this game when you showed it to me?”

Napoleon twisted slightly to see him, grinning in amusement. “You compared it to Human Chess.”

Illya smiled triumphantly in return. “Checkmate.”

At the word, Faustina swung her arm up and over Napoleon. She curved its trajectory at the last moment, managing to plant her hand on the blue circle under his ribs. The move left her poised above him, her face inches from his.

“For Benjamin,” she purred and kissed him.

It was a kiss that would be talked about for weeks to come. Napoleon's eyes widened at her uninhibited assault on his mouth. Finding the reality far better than his imaginings, Napoleon reciprocated with the full force of his talents. He sank onto the mat, burying his hand in her hair and pulling her down with him. The crowd hooted and clapped in appreciation.

Suddenly it was over. Faustina broke away as Kitt declared her team tournament champions.

Napoleon lay on the mat, slightly dazed. “I think that constitutes a foul,” he complained half-heartedly.

“Nothing in the rules against kissing,” Kitt cheerfully declared.

April was the first to give Faustina a hug. “I've always wondered what a kiss of death looked like. Now I know.”

Mark gave Illya a congratulatory slap on the back, his earlier resentments forgotten. "And what a way to go.”


End file.
